It was late in the afternoon when Ed and Westy who had been working their way upstream all day awarded with a goodly string of gleaming trout, found themselves on a high and rocky point from which Vulture Cliff was plainly visible. In the clear mountain air it seemed as if they might almost touch it.

Tired from their scrambles and satisfied with their catch, the boys stretched out on the rocks and gazed up at the cliff. They were separated from it by a narrow gulch of such dizzy depths that Ed said it made him seasick to look down.

“Don’t look down, then, look up,” said Westy. “You can see the vultures from here.”

“Gee, so you can. Don’t they look like airplanes? I wonder how big they are?”

“Well,” said Westy, “that guide at the Hermitage said he killed one once that measured over eight feet from the tip of one wing to the tip of the other, spread out. Of course he didn’t kill that one on this reservation, but I bet these are just as big.”

“I bet they are, and my goodness look what a lot of them there are. They must scent something dead over there,” cried Ed in excitement.

“Dead nothing!” Westy disagreed. “Something’s scaring them! Look! There’s a man! Why, it must be Mr. Wilde; you can see him as plain as plain. I don’t see Billy anywhere. Now Mr. Wilde’s gone back in the bushes. Let’s climb up higher and watch.”

They scrambled higher to a point that afforded a very clear view of the precipice opposite. Neither man was now to be seen, but several vultures were circling the cliff and others joined them, perching clumsily on the rock shrugging their ugly humped shoulders in disgust at being disturbed. Out from the wooded height there jutted a long narrow shelf of bare rock that overhung the deep ravine below. This was the vultures’ roost and outlook. In crevices along here the monstrous birds had their great awkward nests and here “on top of the world,” as Ed said, their little ones were hatched. On the edge of this shelf there grew a solitary crooked pine, deformed in its efforts to keep a difficult foothold in the barren rock against many a mountain tempest. At the foot of this tree an object caught the boys’ eyes. “What’s that?” they both cried at once, and squinting against the afternoon sun they shaded their eyes in true Indian fashion and peered intently. It couldn’t be! It was! There was no mistaking a scout uniform even at this distance. Yet neither boy would believe his eyes. The thing they saw seemed too impossible to be true! Both together they said the same thing at once.

“That can’t he Warde!” They looked at one another and then back again.

“As sure as you’re born, that’s Warde Hollister sitting under that tree on the very tip edge of the cliff!”

Westy was so breathless that he could only gasp.

“Why, my gosh!” said Ed irritably, “he’s as crazy as a June bug to sit up there on top of the Woolworth and let his silly legs hang over the edge. Hasn’t he got any sense?”

“Haven’t you heard,” said Westy, “of people who lose their senses when they get up on something high and want to jump off? What if——”

“What if——” echoed Ed and both felt too horrified to say more. Instinctively they crouched low as if the very sight of Warde so near the dizzy edge made them cling closer to solid rock themselves, not only for their own peace of mind but as if their act might hold Warde back, too.

But now another horror threatened. It was plain that the vultures resented this stranger in their midst. Sweeping forth with wide wings several vultures, apparently startled from their fastnesses on the rocks, swooped out and circled the lone pine.

Mindful of the ghastly story Buck Whitley had told of vultures, both boys shuddered.

“There come some more,” Westy whispered—in his fright he could not control his voice to speak aloud. Two more great birds winged out over the gulch and turned in air around the pine. They glided smoothly out on the wind with wings motionless, like monoplanes, but flapping hideously as they returned to their haven in the rocks. It became evident that something out of sight in the woods behind was frightening the birds.

“It’s Mr. Wilde!” Westy choked. “He’s driving the vultures at Warde on purpose!” As this idea dawned on Ed he felt himself as he afterwards described it “turning green around the gills.” Then his good sense returned.

“Oh, you’re crazy!” Ed snapped, and his positive tones cheered Westy greatly. “They don’t know he’s there! They’re just scaring the birds up to photograph them. Can’t you see through it? Warde was peeved at being left behind, so he sneaked off on us and beat them to it and now he thinks he’s the real smart Alec to get ahead of them out there after Mr. Wilde told us to stay behind. I did think he had more sense than that!”

Two birds were now circling lower and definitely toward the scout-clad figure under the tree. This figure remained so motionless that Westy shuddered and said, “Maybe he’s dead already, vultures act that way over dead things.”

“Dead, my eye,” contradicted Ed, sturdily. “He’s not dead. Maybe he’s scared to move, or fainted or maybe he’s just asleep. Let’s climb up higher yet and yell at him.” They climbed and shouted, but the distance was too great for their voices to carry and the giant mountains only threw back mocking echoes of their puny lungs at them.

“Those birds must have a nest near that tree,” Ed argued, as the huge pair beat their ragged wings against the scout. The two boys, watching, powerless to help, could only scramble higher hoping to reach a point higher up where they might be seen and signal, but they gained this vantage point just in time to see the khaki figure topple under the vulture wings and tumble down the sheer cliff into the rocks and trees below.

Neither Westy nor Ed dared rise from his place for several minutes, so sickened were they by this fearful sight. Then crawling to the edge, they both ventured to look down. Far, far below they could just make out the khaki figure lying with limbs distorted.

“He’s dead,” gulped Westy. “Every bone he has must be smashed.” He began to cry.

“No, look! He’s moving!” True enough, the scout, lying on a sharp decline, turned and slid farther down the ravine.

In another moment the boys above succeeded in getting their shocked minds clear enough to act like scouts.

“We’ve got to go down and get him,” said Westy, asserting himself. “You can’t see either Mr. Wilde or Billy and you can’t make them hear us. There’s no time to waste hunting them up first to help us. I’m going right down now on a chance I might get to him in time.”

“One of us ought to get a doctor,” Ed suggested.

“How?” put in Westy.

“Well, don’t you remember they had a telephone at the Hermitage? We could phone into Yellowstone for a doctor from there.”

“Good idea. You thought of it, so you go there and I’ll climb down after Warde. There’s no time to waste, so hurry.”

“Oh, I’ll hurry. Here, keep these matches and make a signal fire to guide us to you if you can’t get out of there by night.”

So saying, the boys separated, Westy preparing to descend the dangerous slope, and Ed daring the obscure trail to circle the mountain to Hermitage Rest.

The sun, still bright on the mountain tops, had already left the valleys in a sinister twilight as the boys parted.